


Wanted to Come Back

by ddynoliaeth



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddynoliaeth/pseuds/ddynoliaeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marwood returns after making it big on the West End to pick up the pieces of his old friend Withnail, and to take care of him the way he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanted to Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this please consider commissioning me to write some fic for you!  
> http://vincenoir.tumblr.com/post/161648060242/hey-so-im-severely-strapped-for-cash-at-the

It begins with a pounding on the door. Withnail awakes with a start, mind still addled by booze (drunk off his tits, even) and face numb from the fibers of the carpet and the saliva staining them. Red wine adds another patch to the motley rug, even the weak London sunlight diffused through the bottle too much for his sensitive morning eyes. The pounding is now accompanied by a shouting voice.  
"Withanil? Withnail! Let me in, you worthless lump!"  
"Bollocking shitbags," Withnail mumbles into the floor. He can't deal with this, not today. Not ever if he's being honest, not after the events at the park. Anyone who leaves him quoting the Dane in a downpour for a pack of, quite frankly, impressively uncaring wolves can fuck off in his opinion. It's taken him weeks to get over the betrayal. Or is it days? He isn't sure how long ago it happened, considering he's been even more ridiculously intoxicated than the usual.  
"Withnail, open the fucking door!"  
He doesn't, instead planting his face back down on the sticky carpet. It's only moments before the door is torn open, the lock a useless piece of shit. The banging and the howling is a formality, really, and one Withnail could really do without these days.  
Marwood stares at the prone form of his friend, ragged coat and unwashed hair flaring out across the floor. He thinks he rather looks like a murdered investigator, killed just as he's on the brink of a breakthrough. The illusion is ruined, of course, by Withnail's hacking cough.  
Unsure of himself now in the familiar territory of Withnail's flat, Marwood creeps tenderly across the room, avoiding bottles that once may have contained wine or gin or even lighter fluid, crouching down at the drunk's side. He's almost asleep again, the booze a haze even stronger than his old tipsy presentation. Marwood carefully reaches underneath him, turning him on his back and lifting him into his arms. He's lost weight, something a twig like him can't really afford to do. Marwood cradles the taller man against his chest and carries him out of the refuse, slung in his arms like a rag doll with half its stuffing falling out. Withnail is loaded into the back seat of the Jag, carefully situated on his side so he doesn't choke on his own vomit (and isn't that the way he'll go?) and it's almost like old times, but Marwood is only now getting his curls back and Withnail is in no state to lean out the window shouting "scrubbers" at schoolgirls. Marwood allows himself a small smile at the memory before starting up the Jaguar and pulling out into the street. 

Withnail wakes, still drunk, for the second time as he is carried over the threshold of an unfamiliar flat like a God forsaken bride. He doesn't have the strength to fight against the warm body holding him, nor the real intention, but makes the effort in the form of verbal abuse to keep up appearances.  
"What the bloody fuckin hell is going on?"  
"I've brought you to my flat, Withnail." And, oh, does his voice sound like liquid gold on ears that have missed it for so long. "I always meant to come back for you, once I was financially stable. I want to help you. With your... problem."  
Withnail's head lolls back, mouth mumbling some denials that he has a problem, and who asked you to come and help him anyway? Marwood merely carries him to the bathroom, sitting him down beside the bath as he goes to turn the light on.  
"Ow, you fucking tosser! Do you have the sun in your ceiling?"  
"Sorry, sorry." Marwood rushes to dim the light, dulling the room until it's illuminated by only a pale yellow glow. The shadow of the moth fluttering around it makes it look rather like candlelight, Marwood thinks, but pushes the thought away as he squats beside Withnail, reaching for his coat.  
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Withnail demands, slapping his hands away.  
"You need a bath, Withnail. You smell like you haven't washed in months."  
"That's the not a fucking bath," he barks, indignation settling down in his voice, making him sound more like the Withnail Marwood remembers. "It's fucking white!"  
"Most baths are. It's ours that was the unusual one."  
"Bollocks to that."  
Too focused on righteous outrage at the porcelain bath imposter to notice, Withnail remains unaware that Marwood has devested him of his many layers until he's being lifted up and helped into its false confines. He feels as though he should protest, be angry about being manhandled, but instead he finds he likes it and melts into the warmth of the water. He relaxes, feels his muscles unwinding, until he's gently pushed forward and a scratchy ball starts rubbing at his back.  
"What the bloody hell are you doing?"  
"Cleaning you, since you're obviously incapable yourself. Just shut up, Withnail, and let me take care of you. Please."  
And he does. For the first time in his (admittedly frazzled) memory, Withnail lets go and allows Marwood to do everything. Neither man says anything as Marwood moves from his back to his front, running the soaped loofa over his pale chest, his arms, his legs, and even over his cock. Withnail's too drunk for his body to react, but he finds himself wishing it could, wanting Marwood to know how much he missed him, how terribly alone he felt in that flat without his only companion. God, he sounds like some lovelorn moron, but Christ does he wish he could just tell Marwood how he feels. But the man in question is standing up, gathering Withnail's soiled clothes, and promising he'll be back in only a moment after he puts these shit coats in the wash. Withnail watches him go with the kind of sadness that he rarely let's himself feel, much less show, and wonders what could be if he weren't such a fuck up. 

Afternoon light burns Withnail's eyes, the tiny slit in the unfamiliar curtains fall directly across his face in a sort of typical form of cruelty. He groans, hangover sitting behind his eyes with a butcher's knife and a vengeance. Blindly groping towards the edge of the bed, far further than his own tiny excuse for a mattress, he barely manages to stop the glass of water falling from the bedside table when he knocks it. Leaning up, resting on elbows with his chest to the sheets, Withnail grabs the two white tablets beside the glass and downs the whole thing in one breath. It is now that he realises he's as naked as the day he was born, lying in sheets that have a higher thread count than he has hair count. Gaze surveying the room, he spots an impossibly fluffy dressing gown and nothing else. He sighs in resignation.  
Marwood is sitting on his living room couch when Withnail emerges from the guest room, wrapped up in the white gown he'd left out for him the night before after he'd helped the idiot fall into bed. Marwood smiles without meaning to, glad to see his friend again even if his expression is so sour.  
"What have you don't to my clothes, you perfumed ponce?"  
"They're drying on the balcony, Withnail. But I bought you a few new things, if you'd like. They're in my room," Marwood replies, gesturing with his book at the door to the right of Withnail's.  
"Why?"  
"Because you can't spend the rest of your life in those disgusting clothes."  
Withnail thinks about arguing, can feel a scathing retort in his throat, but it dies somewhere on the way to his tongue. Instead a sense of gratefulness fills his chest, his stomach, and wells up until it flows out through his over sensitive eyes. Marwood looks on it confused horror as Withnail cries, bemused by his own reaction to this simple gesture.  
"Why are you doing this?"  
Marwood stands, discarding the thin blanket from across his legs, placing book and reading glasses on his coffee table, and carefully walks towards Withnail, hands open and approaching as he would a frightened animal.  
"I want you to be happy, Withnail, and you were certainly not happy in that flat with only your booze to keep you company," he murmurs, voice soft as he lifts his hands to cradle Withnail's face. "And I missed you."  
"I missed you, too, Peter," Withnail replies, choking on the name. Marwood smiles sadly, fondly, and stretches up onto the tips of his toes to press a soft, sweet, chaste kiss to Withnail's lips. Withnail responds with eagerness, and he tastes of stale alcohol and cigarettes and Withnail, and Marwood can remember kissing him before in drunken stupors but it's never been like this, never been so simply lovely and full of emotion.  
And Withnail, he still has a bastard of a headache behind his eyes, and he's still surprised he didn't need his stomach pumped last night, and his throat feels like a steamroller covered in sandpaper made fifty trips along it, but he doesn't notice any of that because it all melts away as Marwood touches him and kisses him. They pull apart.  
"I love you, Peter," Withnail croaks, unsure about the words as he thinks them and sure about them as he speaks.  
"I love you, too, Withnail, you fucking lunatic."

Withnail doesn't return to the flat they used to share. He assumes Danny has taken it over, but he hasn't had any more contact with him, either. He's had a few auditions since Marwood took him in, even managed to land one part. He's been working to get off the hard alcohol, and if it's easier with Marwood petting his hair and telling him it's going to be alright when he's having withdrawal, then that's nobody's fucking business.  
It's been a full month since Marwood took Withnail into his home, since their relationship has fallen over the edge from platonic to romantic (although, had it ever truly been platonic, Withnail asks himself late at night when it's all he can think about). Marwood sits on the living room sofa, his red blanket ("the colour of revolution," he assures Withnail) over his lap, a script in his hands, and his reading glasses perched on his nose. Withnail sits with him, bored out of his mind. It's times like these he misses being drunk, if only for something to do. He looks over to Marwood, leans over, rests on top of his legs and lets his face hover over Marwood's lap. The shorter man looks down at his companion, one eyebrow raising above his glasses.  
"What're you doing down there?"  
"I haven't had a good shag in fucking ages and, to be brutally honest, I'm tired of waiting for you to make a move," Withnail says, matter of fact. He drops his head, nose directly in Marwood's crotch, and inhales deeply. It smells like laundry detergent - the blanket was only cleaned yesterday.  
"Withnail, I don't think-"  
"Do you not want to, is that it?" Withnail asks, flippant, but panicking inwardly that it's the truth.  
"No, no, it's not, it's just that, well," Marwood trails off. Withnail stares at him with his trademark expectant but withering gaze, and Marwood shifts unconsciously, which leads to his cock rubbing against the tip of Withnail's nose. Marwood gasps. Withnail moves his head away, says nothing.  
"Okay," Marwood mumbles, removing his glasses and placing his script on the table. He straightens his shirt in nervousness, shifting under the blanket with anticipation.  
"Why didn't you want to?" Withnail won't let it go, fragile pride hurt.  
"Look, Withnail, do you want to do this or do you no-"  
"Why didn't you want to?"  
There is a silence between them for a moment as Marwood looks everywhere but at his companion, trying to think of a believable lie. He comes up short, out of practice in their usual commonplace lying escapades.  
"I haven't done it in a long while," he says. "I was scared I'd embarrass myself."  
Withnail shakes his head, crawls over Marwood.  
"If anyone's going to embarrass himself, it'll be me. You know I go off like a fucking firecracker."  
"But you always said you were the best and longest lay any girl'd ever had!"  
"I always said a lot of bullshit that wasn't true. Now shut the fuck up and let me fuck you."  
Marwood's attempt at a scathing reply is swallowed by Withnail's mouth, and this time he tastes of cigarettes and breath mints and their home-cooked lunch, and Marwood never wants to stop tasting him. His hands fight their way through the layers of gel in that long, black hair, and he hangs on for dear life as Withnail snogs him senseless. Withnail is the one to pull away for air, moving along Marwood's clean-shaven jaw and down his neck, pulling his red sweater up his chest, baring the palest porcelain skin for his exploration. Marwood grips onto his head for support as that mouth, clumsy and terrible and perfect, moves to his nipples, swirling with determination but very little finesse. But it drives Marwood crazy, because it's Withnail and it's him and it's them doing this together after all these years of what the fuck are we even doing.  
And then Withnail's moving further down, down his chest and his stomach, and he's moving the blanket away and he's pulling on his waistband and it's all almost too much already. But Withnail looks at his cock with such reverence that his self consciousness comes back full throttle and he wants to bury himself in the couch, but he lets Withnail look and soon Withnail isn't looking and instead he's tasting. The feeling of those lips, that tongue, gliding along him is just so wonderful that it's nearly over then and there, would be if Withnail's inexperienced mouth hadn't grazed the head with a tooth. Withnail pulls off with an obscene splot.  
"I'd bet you tried doing this to yourself, haven't you?" He asks, hand idly moving down from gripping the sweater to instead grip Marwood's cock.  
"If you mean with my hand, then yes. But if you - ah! - if you mean my mouth, then - oh fuck - then no."  
Withnail hums, disbelieving, but drops the subject to instead return to mouthing at Marwood's thickness, the feeling of the weight on his tongue addictive already. Marwood's head falls back against the arm of the couch, back arching into Withnail's touch. It's too little and too quiet until it's suddenly all too much and too loud and he forgets entirely to warn Withnail as he shouts his name and the bugger splutters all over his pelvis because he's choked on the fucking cum. Typical.  
Withnail is on him immediately, bursting for his own release, rutting desperate and filthy against Marwood's leg like some randy dog. It's all Marwood can do to move with him, push against him and provide friction in the few moments it takes for Withnail to come in his pants. He collapses onto Marwood, and they fall asleep on the couch without bothering at all to clean themselves up.  
When they wake, Marwood strips Withnail and puts their clothes in the wash, and they sit with a glass of wine each in white fluffy dressing gowns on the living room couch, Withnail telling wildly over dramatic stories about how, one day very soon, he'd like Marwood to fuck him in the arse into their mattress until he can feel it for days.  
Marwood, flustered but content, agrees that it sounds like almost as good an idea as a holiday in the countryside.


End file.
